Sugar and Cyanide
by DestinyWolfe
Summary: (Post-Apocalypse Stevebucky AU) After a devastating plague decimates the world's population, Steve Rogers and the Avengers are all that stand between humanity and the infected. In between these two warring groups are the Carriers, people who are non-symptomatic and yet carry the deadly disease in their blood. Bucky Barnes is one of these people.
1. Chapter One: First Assignment

"Careful, big guy. Almost bumped me back there."

"Sorry, Nat," Steve sighs, tucking in his elbows. "I'm still not used to this new body." He suppresses a shiver. The night air is brisker than usual, tainted with the threat of snow. The alleyway where he and his team are walking is dank and narrow, barely wide enough for two people to comfortably walk side-by-side.

"We should get you an 'Oversize Load' sign," Natasha says. "We could tape it right here." She gives his ass a pat as she sweeps past. She throws a smirk over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. The dim light of the single flickering streetlight reflects off her fine-featured face. There's a teasing light in her sea-foam eyes.

"Would you stop flirting with my girlfriend?" Clint complains from behind. He strides up on Steve's right, matching Natasha step-for-step. "You two are gonna get thrown in jail. Didn't your moms teach you about the no-touching rule?"

"Hey," Steve throws up his hands, "she started it."

"Girlfriend?" Natasha scoffs at the same time. "Barton, you're the one who's going to end up in jail. You know how the Masters feel about relationships. Real or pretend."

"Guys. Stop. Headache." Tony Stark—the Avengers' resident mechanical genius and sarcastic comeback creator extraordinaire—groans dramatically. To further make his point, he forcefully grinds the heels of his hands into his temples. Steve is about ninety-nine percent sure that's not how you fix a headache, but decides not to point that out.

Even though her face is turned away, Steve knows that Natasha is rolling her eyes. "If you're going to be a crybaby, Stark, go home," she says coolly.

Tony has just opened his mouth, most likely ready with the perfect retort, when a massive explosion fills the alleyway with fire.

 _"DOWN!"_ Steve screams, diving into a side-alley just in time. He feels rather than sees Natasha throw herself down beside him, her hip digging into his thigh. He shifts to cover her body with his, ducking his head and drawing up his knees. Her breath is right in his ear. Even through the ringing in his head, he can hear it, loud and ragged like a knife wound.

"There's a second bomb," she hisses. He doesn't pause to ask how she knows. He's worked with her long enough to know not to make that mistake.

"Romanov! Rogers!" Clint's hair is singed and sticking up like a mad scientist's. There's a smear of blood on his forehead, but other than that he seems to have made it out unscathed. He's panting as he stops in front of them. Between breaths, he manages to explain what happened. "Stark killed the second grenade," he begins, "Thor went after our guy."

Steve rises to his feet. He gives Clint a quick, sharp nod. "You hurt?"

Clint shakes his head. "Stark got hit bad, though. We need to get him out of here. Now."

"I'll find him," Natasha says. She rises alongside Steve, shooting him a glance and the hint of a smile as she goes. He knows that's her way of saying 'thank you'; when she smiles, it always means something. Sometimes victory, sometimes the grudging acceptance of grim defeat. She never smiles at nothing.

Clint watches her go with rapt attention. "Stark needs medics. I'll call them in." He takes off in the opposite direction, heading for the nearest communication center. "Meet you back at the Tower, Rogers," he calls over his shoulder.

Left alone in the narrow alleyway, Steve walks as if in a dream back toward ground zero. His head spins and his ears ring from the explosion. Stark better be okay, he thinks, his heart sinking when he remembers what Clint said. Although Steve has only been with the Avengers—an elite team of superhumans tasked with defending the remainder of humanity from the Strocosia Morbus plague—for a little over three months, he's already grown to care for them all. Each is different and brilliant in their own way. Tony Stark is a mechanical genius with a wickedly sharp wit; Natasha Romanov and Clint Barton are master assassins who work together so beautifully that Steve half believes they can communicate telepathically; Thor is the best fighter in the city, and can make anything—from a workman's hammer to a power cord or a rotten apple—into a deadly weapon. Bruce Banner is both a brilliant scientist and the much needed voice of reason in the group, calmly pulling Tony back from the edge whenever the engineer gets too excited about a new (and usually dangerous) invention or project. Steve is their leader and moral guide, making sure unnecessary casualties stay low and the successful mission count stays high. They're like parts in a machine; without any one of them, the whole group would malfunction and fall apart.

When he arrives, Steve sees that the alleyway is burned and blackened, the garbage heaped in the gutters still smoking. The putrid smell sticks in Steve's nose and coats his tongue and throat. It stings his eyes, catches in his lungs.

"Rogers, over here." Natasha is crouched beside a hunched and shaking form. It takes Steve a moment to realize that it's Tony.

"How bad is he?" Steve kneels beside her, eyes searching her half-turned face. "Natasha. Is it critical?"

When she looks at him, he sees the fear in her eyes. It's veiled—everything is with her—but it's there. She swallows hard, one hand resting lightly on the top of Tony's bowed head. "There's shrapnel in his heart. The only reason he saw the second grenade was because he landed right next to it. He didn't get out fast enough."

Panic rears, dark and ugly, in Steve's chest. He clenches his fists, rising to his feet. "There's gotta be something we can do."

She looks up at him, lips pursed. "When Thor catches the attacker, then you can do something. Whoever he is, we're going to make him regret this."

Steve turns away. Tony groans; a low, pained sound. Steve closes his eyes. "Damn straight."

In the distance, emergency sirens blare to life.

. . . . . .

 _~Two weeks later~_

The woman who arrives on the day Tony Stark finally wakes up is lithe and beautiful, and carries herself like a queen. When she arrives at SHIELD's headquarters, the agents emerge from their offices to watch her pass. She has an aura of power and independence, of strength that comes from herself and no one else. An elegant dignity radiates from her like light from a flashbulb, blinding all who get caught in its beam. She calls herself Agent Carter, and her reputation billows in her wake like a matador's cape.

"Steve Rogers?" She asks, stopping in front of Steve. He's standing outside of Tony's sickroom. The lights in the hallway are flickering dully; inside the room, the equipment keeping Tony alive is sapping the generator's energy. The building's monthly power allowance has almost expired, and August has only just begun.

"Yes," Steve says. Then, remembering his manners, he dips his head respectfully and corrects himself: "Yes, ma'am."

She looks up at him. Her brown eyes are beautifully deep, full of bottomless intelligence. Her lips are bright red, standing out against her light skin. Her dark hair is caught up and pinned behind her head. Distantly, Steve thinks that her elegance and beauty is out of place in the dingy, half-lit medical sector. She looks like she belongs in one of the old paintings from before the plague. Like an ancient goddess trapped in a mortal body.

When she speaks again, he almost startles at her accent. Northern Europe, he thinks. English. It's been a long time since he's heard anyone who sounds like her. Ever since going underground, contact with the rest of the world has been almost nonexistent. She says, "we know who's responsible for the bombing." She doesn't have to say which one. "We want you to go after them."

"Them?" Steve asks, surprised. "I thought the authorities said it was a random attack. Last I checked there was just one perpetrator."

She purses her lips. "No. The responsible party was a cult called Hydra. We've dealt with them before: they're Carriers trying to return the world to how it was before the Awakening. They're organized, and they're dangerous. If we don't make our move soon, it may be too late."

Steve swallows the questions vying for attention at the front of his mind. He nods; a quick, sharp jerk of his head. "What's the mission?"

She hands him a manila folder, thick with documents and printed security footage. "The details are in here." Their fingers brush, and Steve's whole hand tingles at the rare skin-to-skin contact. He holds his breath, waiting to be reprimanded. Her expression tightens, but she says nothing for a long moment. And then, "I expect you to get the bastard who did this." Her gaze strays momentarily to the observation window of Tony's room. "For all of our sakes."

And then Agent Carter turns around and starts back down the hall. The two tall, expressionless men with her fall in to step on either side, their polished shoes clicking dully on the tiled floor. Steve watches her go, the tingling in his hand spreading up his arm and into his chest. The feeling settles there like a baby bird, nestling warmly against his heart.

He hasn't run a solo mission before. Not since he joined the Avengers. He doesn't know if he should be excited or terrified.

After he visits Tony and hears from the doctors just how extensive the damage is, about how there's shrapnel wedged in the engineer's heart, the warring excitement and fear becomes mixed with bitter vengeance. _Hydra's going down,_ he promises himself. _Those sons of bitches won't know what hit them._

With the folder gripped tightly in one hand, he returns to his room to prepare for Phase One.


	2. Chapter Two: Phase One

Back in his one-room apartment—which is barely big enough for a twin bed, a toilet, a sink, and a dresser-Steve settles himself down on the hardwood floor and opens the folder. When he sees the thick, dark red lettering across the top of the first page, his heart nearly stops. _Welcome to Project Insight_ , it reads. And then, _Assignment #1013, Phase One. Details listed below. Reports due after every mission to Agent Margaret Carter._

Suddenly buzzing with excitement, Steve eagerly skims down the page to the assignment details, which are listed in fine black print:

· _Choose a team of three to serve as your backup during Mission 001. These individuals are not to know the purpose or details of this assignment. They must be trustworthy regardless of this restriction._

· _Track the two suspected attackers from last week's bombing. Do not apprehend them directly. Follow them and find out who they report to._

· _Identify and record any and all individuals suspected of being affiliated with Hydra and/or any Carrier safety network or shelter group._

· _If attacked, you are authorized to use fatal force to defend yourself. Otherwise, do not kill unless the situation directly requires it._

· _Film and/or photograph any important locations or artifacts connected to Hydra or any of their allies._

· _If compromised, do not return to the Tower. Do not betray your connection to SHIELD. If necessary to protect the identities of SHIELD operatives or other sensitive information relating to SHIELD and its operations—especially Project Insight—you are required to terminate yourself. You can find your termination injection in the back pocket of this folder. Use it only as a last resort._

· _When you have identified both the bombers and their superiors, report back to SHIELD and return to the medical sector of the Tower for physical evaluation._

· _Once your report is filed and you are cleared by medical, await further instruction in the Mission Room._

· _This mission begins immediately. Do not waste any time. The longer we wait, the more time we are giving them to rally their resistance. Good luck, Captain Rogers. We eagerly await your return._

Steve reads the list several times over, his heart beating faster in his chest. _This is it,_ he thinks. He is almost numb from the shock of it—he has only been at SHIELD for five months, and an Avenger for three. He barely has the clearance to know that Project Insight existed. Whoever decided he's ready to work on this assignment is either insane or… well, insane. Which is not to say that he doesn't want this, because he does. More than anything.

Skimming quickly through the rest of the folder's contents, Steve commits as much of it to memory as he can. Tucking the most important pages and pictures into an envelope, he rises to his feet, sliding the envelope into his pocket. Crossing the room, he turns on the tap and runs cold water over his hands for a few seconds in an attempt to calm his racing heart. He can feel a tingling in his hands and feet. His blood is full of adrenaline and his mind is flooded with endorphins. He can't remember being this excited; not since the Awakening, when he and the other survivors finally risked returning to the surface and began rebuilding their lives above ground.

After donning his civilian jeans and coat, he heads for the Downtime Room. He finds Clint and Natasha sitting with Sam Wilson at a small table, a chess set spread between them on a roughly drawn checkerboard.

"Your move," Sam says, sitting back and gesturing with one hand at Natasha.

Natasha and Clint exchange a glance. They're sitting dangerously close together, their thighs almost touching. Clint leans in to whisper something to Natasha, who smiles wickedly. He laughs, brushing his fingers across her shoulder as he draws back. What they're doing is definitely against regulations, Steve thinks. If not for their artificial immunity, they could be arrested for being in such close physical proximity to one another. They might even be executed, if the authorities had reason to believe that one or the other was infected.

"Oh, shit," Sam swears when he sees Steve. For a moment his eyes flicker to Natasha and Clint. But then he visibly relaxes, an easy smile lifting his lips. "Oh, hey, Captain. Thought you were a guard for a second there."

Steve returns the smile. He crosses the room, taking the seat on Sam's left. "Who's winning?" He asks, although it's obvious by the players left on the board. Natasha is missing two pawns and a rook, while Sam is down to his King, his Queen, and a knight.

"They're cheating," Sam says, raising his eyebrows at the two Avengers opposite him, "Nat's getting help from Barton."

Natasha corners Sam's knight with her Queen. Smirking, she says, "Don't worry, this is all me. He's not helping at all. Unless you count telling dirty jokes in Russian."

"I suck at chess," Clint admits, chuckling. He finishes off what is likely his third or fourth cup of coffee in a single loud gulp. Rising to his feet, he nods at Steve and Sam. "Sorry to bail, but I need to sleep. Like, yesterday. If Fury asks, I'm working on some profiles."

"Check," Natasha says. "Barton, Rogers wants to talk to us. You can nap later."

Steve looks at her. He smiles, letting out a short huff of a laugh. "How'd you know?"

"Because if you didn't, you'd be helping Wilson not get his ass kicked for the third consecutive game in a row." Her smirk grows. She watches as Sam shakes his head and picks up his King, moving it one square to the right. With one finger, she prods a bishop into position, cornering his King between her Queen and two knights. "Correction: you'd be _trying_ to help him. Checkmate." She tips his King over with her Queen. The hollow plastic piece hits the board with a dull thud. Flipping her hair back over her shoulder, she sits back and fixes Steve with her piercing green-blue gaze. "Out with it, Rogers. Why was Carter here? What did she tell you?"

 _Of course she knows Carter was here,_ Steve thinks, and is once again impressed and astonished by Natasha's thorough knowledge of all the Tower's many goings-on.

"Carter?" Clint pauses behind Natasha's chair. His hand falls down to rests on Natasha's shoulder, the fingers curled against her collarbone. "How did I miss that?"

Sam resets the chess board, placing his fallen King back in its place with an air of finality. "Twenty dollars says it was cuz you were sleeping."

"I'm not betting against that," Natasha says.

"C'mon, Tasha," Clint groans, an expression of mock betrayal on his face, "I was doing paperwork for Hill. I was stuck in my room for six hours."

"You just answered your own question," Natasha replies, the barest hint of a smile hiding behind false exasperation.

"Guys," says Sam. Clint, who had just opened his mouth to retort, closes it again.

"Thanks, Sam," says Steve, shooting his friend a grateful look. Everyone at SHIELD knows that if you don't cut them off early, Natasha and Clint's infamous verbal sparring sessions can go on indefinitely. "Agent Carter gave me a solo mission." He decides not to beat around the issue. It would just waste time, and Natasha would call him out for stalling. "I can't tell you what the objective is, or any of the details, but it's important. And I need your help."

Sam settles back in his seat. He stretches, folding his arms across his chest. "So is this an Avengers thing, or…?"

"No," Steve shakes his head. "I was told to assemble a team of three to act as backup in case I get into any fights I can't handle. Which seems to be a distinct possibility. Besides, Sam, you'll be an Avenger as soon as they can get more Cure, right? Which should be in, what, two weeks? You're more than qualified for this. Trust me."

Natasha stretches, crossing her booted feet on the chess table. Miraculously, none of the pieces so much as shift from their original squares. "Let me get this straight, Rogers," she begins. "You want us to follow you on an unspecified assignment to act as your bodyguards?" Steve can hear the disbelief and disdain in her voice. But under that, there is a veiled note of curiosity. And if he knows Natasha at all—which he likes to think that he's beginning to—then he knew it was that spark of curiosity that would win out. Already, he could see her trying to put pieces together in her mind, building a picture that would allow her insight into the situation that not even he had considered.

Steve shrugs at her words. "I'm not saying you have to. But I want you guys with me on this. Trust me, it's important. But if you're not okay with secrets, then by all means…"

"I'm in," said Sam. When Steve looked at him incredulously, he said, "Look, Cap. If you trust me to back you up, I can trust you to keep the right secrets for the right reasons. I've got your back."

"You've captured my interest, Rogers." Natasha tilts her head, that slight smile back in place. "I'm not promising I won't figure it out."

Clint sighs heavily, lifting his empty coffee cup and shaking the last few drops into his mouth. Natasha looks up at him, expectant, and he caves immediately. "I'm in, too," he says. "When're we heading out?"

Steve smiles at them. He hopes they know how grateful he is. "Right now," he replies. "Get your weapons and meet me outside in half an hour. No combat suits, though. We're going undercover."


	3. Chapter Three: The Restricted District

Outside the Tower, the City's streetlights have come on as the sun dips behind the distant mountains. A haze is in the air, capturing the sun's last rays. Red light spirals across the sky like blood through water. A few dark clouds hang over the City's tallest skyscrapers, meandering lazily toward the south like sheep across a pasture.

"Aww, Nat," Clint is saying as Steve makes his way past the SHIELD compound's final barbed-wire gate and onto the empty streets, "why can't I bring this?"

"Because," Natasha replies, "Rogers didn't say where we're going. If we're using the sewers or going into the unlit zone, that'll give us away immediately. It'd be like painting a target on your chest."

Steve hears Clint's disappointed sigh; Natasha's answer seems to have convinced him. Whatever it was he wanted to bring, it's staying behind.

"There he is," Sam says as Steve turns into an alleyway. The team is standing between two decrepit brick buildings, their faces obscured by the darkness of falling night. Clint and Natasha are going through their gear. Sam is loading two handguns. The latter looks up, an easy smile on his handsome face. "You ready to go, Cap?" he asks.

"Yeah." Steve looks past Sam to Clint and Natasha. Between the two of them, they've magically managed to hide what amounts to a fully stocked armory in various strategic places beneath their (intentionally) baggy outfits. "Romanov, Barton, you guys ready?"

They nod in synchrony. Natasha's face betrays nothing. Clint's expression is a blend of curiosity and excitement.

Steve takes a deep breath. He reaches for the envelope in his back pocket. His fingers brush something hard and thin, a slender metallic device encased in plastic. His termination injection, he realizes. His heart jumps into his throat, and he swallows convulsively. With numb fingers, he pulls the envelope out and opens it. Inside is a map marked in several places with red ink-indicators of suspected Hydra activity. Tracing streets from his current location to the nearest red mark, he says, "First hot zone is two miles from here. Keep an eye out for anyone who looks like they're infected. We're heading through the Restricted District."

Natasha and Clint exchange glances. Sam shrugs and holsters his guns, pulling his jacket hem down to cover them. "We've all been there, right?" He says. "C'mon, guys, we've got this."

Steve shoots him a grateful look. He turns to Natasha, who is attempting to hide a stun-stick in each sleeve. "Romanov, I want you to take the map. Keep us on course." He switches his attention to Clint. "Barton, you've got the best chance of seeing someone coming before they see us. I want you to go with Romanov and signal Wilson if you see anyone—or anything—coming."

"So you want us in a reverse triangle formation?" Sam asks, clarifying.

Steve nods. "Yeah. Sam, you'll be in the back with me. Romanov and Barton will go ahead and clear the course."

"Got it, Cap," says Sam. Natasha and Clint break away and jog out onto the street. Natasha has the map cradled in her hands like a baby bird, her head bent as she studies it. Steve and Sam follow more slowly, walking side-by-side with their hands resting against the bulges of their concealed weapons.

The Restricted District is surrounded by a twenty-five-foot electric fence. The smell of burning dust and ozone fills the air around it, mixing with the City's fumes. The odor that results is a chokingly thick stench not unlike that of burning garbage. It seeps through the streets and collects in closed spaces, clogging the lungs of any creature unlucky enough to breath it in.

"This is it," Steve says to Sam, even though he knows that's obvious. Like Sam said, they've all been there—extensive knowledge of the place is a requirement if you want to work at SHIELD.

"Nat." Clint is crouched beside the fence, bent over a hunched figure on the ground. In the darkness Steve can't make out what it is, but he's pretty sure that whatever it is, it's alive. "Nat!" Clint says again, louder this time, "he's hurt."

Steve actually hears Natasha sigh despite the fact that she's roughly fifty meters to his left. She approaches stealthily, like a panther stalking a deer. She reaches Clint and drops down beside him. "Damn it, Barton," Steve hears her say. There's sharpness in her tone, but it's tempered by pity. She sighs again, rubbing a hand over her face.

"What is it?" Steve asks Sam as they move closer for a better look. Steve's wary of getting too close—this wouldn't be the first time Clint and Natasha got dangerously close to a wounded, possibly infected person.

"Dog," Sam replies.

Steve's about to say something along the lines of _'Clint wouldn't stop in the middle of a mission to help a dog_ ' when he realizes that yeah, that's exactly what Clint would do. As he gets closer, he realizes that Sam is right. It's a Border collie, curled mere inches away from the electric fence. "Must've run into it," Steve says. He feels a wave of sadness wash through him. The only way that such a smart animal would run into the fence was if it was being chased and had nowhere else to go. Which means…

Natasha glances up at Steve. Her eyes are hard chips of ice in the fence's dim blue-green glow. Her expression is darker than December rainclouds. "We need to find shelter. This attack was recent." She indicates several wounds on the dog's body that Steve hadn't previously noticed—a deep set of four gashes down its flank and a gaping hole in its right shoulder. "The people who did it might still be around."

Steve hears Clint make a sound suspiciously like a growl. "Fuck that," the assassin says, "I'm gonna use whoever did this for target practice. Who the fuck does that to a dog?"

"Infected people," Natasha replies dryly. "They were hungry, Clint." Her voice softens slightly, and Steve sees her hand move to rest between his hunched shoulders. "Stand back. You know what I have to do."

"Nat…"

"Barton," Steve cuts in, putting as much authority into his tone as possible, "the dog's infected. If it lives, we can't risk letting it go. What if it gets into the population centers? We can't risk it."

"Sorry, man," Sam says as Clint stands up and walks away from the scene. "I hate it, too. But Rogers is right."

Clint stops twenty meters away, fists clenched and posture rigid. "Do it," he says through gritted teeth. Steve keeps his eyes on Natasha as she backs up a few paces and lifts her gun. There's a small _pop_ as a single dart is fired into the animal's neck. She follows it up with three more—enough to drop a horse for several hours. There's no way an animal as small as this dog is walking away from that kind of overdose.

Afterward, as they power down a section of the fence and climb over it, Clint is more silent and tense than Steve's ever seen him. At first Steve is surprised—he's seen Clint kill infected people and Carries without flinching—until he catches Natasha's eye and sees the soul-deep weariness there. It's affecting her, too. Clint's pain is bleeding into her. Steve realizes then that maybe this is Clint's weak-spot; maybe Clint cares about animals more than people. Maybe that dog's death will haunt him the same way the deaths of hundreds of innocent infected people haunt Steve.

On the other side of the fence, there is nothing but dented asphalt and crumbling, decrepit buildings. Boarded windows and peeling paint tell a tragic story of neglect and disuse. Shattered glass and garbage litter the sidewalks; half-decayed paper cups clog the grime-thick gutters with rotting fibers. Steve sees all of this through a pair of night vision goggles; in the Restricted District, the darkness is complete. The City's power grid spares no electricity for this forgotten corner of civilization. The only illumination comes from the faint orange glow to the east, where the City's main population centers are awash with artificial light. Night has fallen, but even the moon and stars are hiding. A storm is coming. The smell of it is carried on the brisk northern wind.

"Turn your coms on," Steve says. His voice is like a bomb blast in the utter silence. He pulls out his own intercom unit and sticks it in his left ear, adjusting the wires so that they lie flat against his neck. He fumbles with the tiny controls on its surface, finally finding the 'on' button. With a loud crackle, the device begins broadcasting and receiving. "Sam? You reading me?"

 _"_ _Loud and clear,"_ Sam replies. His voice is so crisp that Steve jumps.

"Barton?" Steve prompts after a moment of extended radio silence. "Are you online?"

 _"_ _We're here,"_ Natasha answers for him. Far ahead, Steve sees her pause and crouch low to the ground. _"Looks like we've got fresh tracks, Rogers. The infected people that got to that dog aren't outside the fence after all. They must've gotten back in when they heard us coming."_

 _"_ _How'd they get past the fence?"_ Sam asks. It's a question none of them can answer, and he knows it.

Natasha's voice fades in and out like the heat of fever dreams. _"Something just moved up ahead and to my right."_ Her tone sinks to a whisper. _"We've got company, boys. Get ready to engage."_

 _"_ _I thought this was a civilian infiltration mission,"_ Sam complains, but Steve can tell by the lift in his tone that he's excited at the prospect of finally seeing some action. They all are. No one appreciates a dead mission. _"Why aren't we in combat gear, Cap?"_ Sam asks when Steve doesn't acknowledge his first statement. _"I'm not immune. One of those guys bleeds on me and I'm done, remember?_ "

Steve's mouth goes dry. His heart is pounding. For a moment he can't speak, his attention wandering down the street toward where Natasha and Barton crouch, shadows in the dark. He finally manages to say, "I didn't know there'd be infected this close to the fence. The mission was to get into the underground Carrier network operating beyond the Restricted District. In case we're about to die, maybe I should…"

 _"_ _Shut up, Rogers,"_ Natasha's voice hisses in his ear. _"There're six men to your right and seven coming straight for you. If you give away your location, you'll be dead before you hit the ground."_

Steve sinks down and draws his handgun slowly. "We're hunting the men who almost killed Stark," he continues in a whisper. "But we can't kill them. We need to find out who they work for first."

 _"_ _He's saying we should take prisoners for interrogation,_ " Steve is surprised when Clint's voice comes online. There's a sharp bitterness in the assassin's every word. _"No kill shots unless necessary._ "

"What he said," Steve agrees. "Romanov, Wilson, I want you two to take out the six to my right. Barton, cover me. I'm going in straight ahead."

"Stop, strangers, and tell us your purpose in the Restricted District." The voice that speaks is loud and raucous, like a sick crow's caw. Through his night vision goggles, Steve tries to match the voice to one of the approaching men. When he speaks again, Steve realizes that it belongs to a tall, thickset lion of a man with long, tangled golden hair and keen eyes. "Put your weapons down and we won't kill you," the man says, baring his teeth and lifting a huge machine gun. He aims it at Steve's chest. His companions—all of them rough-looking and dressed in torn leather and denim—quickly cover Sam. Natasha and Clint seem to have disappeared into the night. Steve's infinitely grateful. Hopefully their absence means that he and Sam aren't completely screwed.

Hopefully.

The gang's leader stops ten feet from Steve. Even in the darkness, his eyes are like liquid flames. "I said _put your weapons down_ ," he snarls. Steve obeys at once. He hears the distant _clunk_ of Sam's guns falling to the asphalt. The lion-man smiles, cruel and satisfied. "Rumlow," he says, turning to the man on his right, "I want you to take this one back to base. He's the leader. The others are nothing."

The man called Rumlow nods. He adjusts his gun against his chest, bracing it against his shoulder. "Should I kill the rest?"

"Only the one," the leader of the ragged men says. His eyes are fixed on Steve. "The infected are coming. We can't risk sticking around any longer to look for the other two. Pierce wants us back by dawn."

Before Steve can do more than reach for the knives hidden in his boots, Rumlow has lifted his gun and sighted straight at Sam's chest. He pulls the trigger. The report bounces between crumbling, rotted buildings like a ball tossed between children. Its sound deflates quickly, the hollow tones fading into the night. Steve launches himself at Rumlow, fear and wariness consumed by a wave of overwhelming anger. His fingers find purchase in the soft flesh of Rumlow's exposed throat, and they go down onto the asphalt together. Yelling insults as he draws back his fist, Steve slams his knuckles into the other man's face, once, twice, three times. And then a sharp prick in the back of his neck sends ice surging through his body, and he goes down like a corpse dropped from a tower, crushing Rumlow's body beneath his own. Before consciousness leaves him, he manages to roll over and look up at the sky. With the last of his strength he reaches up to his com, pressing it back into his ear.

 _"_ _Cap?"_ Sam's voice comes through momentarily, weak but coherent. _"I'm hit, but it's not that bad. What happened?_ "

Letting out his breath in relief, Steve pulls the com from his ear and crushes it in his palm, throwing it away. If Hydra's about to take him prisoner, the last thing he wants is for them to get their hands on the device that tells him where the rest of his team is. Even if it means cutting off his own communication with SHIELD, he has to protect his team.

"He's not out. Give him another dose," the leader says, glaring down at Steve's upturned face.

Rumlow obeys eagerly, sending another jolt of ice directly into Steve's bloodstream. Even in the darkness, Steve can see the blatant satisfaction on Rumlow's face as he begins to fade. The night rises up and surrounds Steve like a dark fist, cloaking his mind in cold silence.

For the first time in his life, unconsciousness doesn't bring relief.


End file.
